


The ABC's Of The Man

by TeddyRadiator



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24238936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyRadiator/pseuds/TeddyRadiator
Summary: This was not originally written as SSHG, hence the lack of names. But it works for them, and I've annexed it for them. I often write this way - anonymously, with no names, and I find it pulls me closer into the story. Besides, do we really need to know what they call one another to enjoy them? Contains explicit sexual content.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Kudos: 31





	1. A

She didn’t like to feel jealous of someone or something from his past. It was, after all, years before they met, but…

Sometimes, when he spoke of his youth, and his adventures as a young man, she wished she could have been with him, to have been part of it. It seemed to her that when he reminisced of his past, he went to a place she could not follow, and that filled her with jealousy. She hated not being in the thick of things. She was so afraid of missing something, of not taking part, of being measured against all his experiences, and found wanting.

She was not used to being found wanting.

He found this charming little trait endearing, and, if truth were told, a bit of food for his ego. To have such a wondrous creature as The Girl (as he thought of her sometimes) jealous on his behalf made him preen a little. During certain evenings, when the city air cooled of its torrid swelter, he would scatter cushions on the Persian carpets and drape the silken portieres across the sconces, and they would drink dark, sweet wine, and he would weave his tales of Constantinople.

He told her of his exploits as a guest of the Sultan, and the forbidden delights he experienced with the denizens of the seraglio. One night, lolling on the cushions, draped in silks and velvets, she brazenly asked, “Which was your favourite? What did she look like?” She pouted a little, wanting to know, yet not wanting to know all at the same time.

He smiled. She was as transparent as spring water, as fresh as snow in the hands of a maiden, and he could no more resist baiting her than he could her ample charms. “I do remember one in particular. A lovely young girl named Nakshidil. She was young and beautiful, with a soft, sweet mouth and pale skin. Her eyes were the colour of violets. She was loved by all.”

He stole a sideways glance at The Girl, who was watching him carefully. “Everyone desired her. She was the Sultan’s favourite. One night, the Sultan told Nakshidil she could have the privilege of granting her favours to any of his guests, and she chose me.”

He sipped his wine to hide the mirth in his eyes. Nakshidil was indeed the name of one of the members of the harem; a base, old crone in charge of the younger women. She was fat and toothless, and told bawdy stories that made his younger self blush.

But he knew the idea of a pale beauty pleasuring him was enough to make The Girl’s blood boil, and so he decided to tease her further. He continued innocently, “Yes, Nakshidil was renowned for one thing. It was her specialty, and she was quite skilled.”

She did not ask, but merely nodded. Lounging on his pillows like a Sultan in his own right, he crooked his finger, beckoning her closer. When her nose all but touched his, he whispered, “On the night the Sultan offered her for my pleasure, she bathed me thoroughly, like a babe. And when she had cleaned and dried my skin with soft silks and perfumed oils, she bade me kneel on the cushions, on my hands and knees, and when she placed her soft hands on me, she spread me wide.” He chuckled darkly, a rich, oily sound that made her feel curiously hot. “And then…”

He waited, watching. Her eyes were wide, her lush lips parted.

“And then?” Her voice was less than a whisper. It was merely the aspiration of consonants, puffing across his face. She was almost trembling.

He smiled, a rich, slow, knowing smile. “And then, my girl, Nakshidil pleasured me with her hand, while she licked my hole with her tongue.” His voice was so low and throbbing, She felt it in her core. He purred, “And I shuddered, helpless with pleasure, and my completion was upon me with such power that I thought I would die of ecstasy.”

She was like a statue; she could not quite remember how to breathe. The thought of doing that to a man… but, to make a man like him helpless with pleasure…

He lay back on the cushions, and drank from his goblet, his rich, slow smile making him look curiously younger in the dim light. She watched the candlelight flicker across the sharp planes of his face and imagined how it would look, helpless with pleasure.

He was watching her carefully. In a brighter tone, he asked, “Would you like to know what happened next, my dear?”

She nodded quickly, before her traitorous heart could change its mind and send her screaming from the room. She knew what happened next. She just knew…

“And then, she had me bathe and prepare her.” He gave her a smile Lucifer in hell would be proud of. “I bade Nakshidil rise on her hands and knees, and I pleasured her with my fingers in her cunt, while I ran my tongue around her tiny little hole until she shuddered and screamed with passion.” As if to illustrate, he slowly licked his lips, a lascivious, rapacious gesture.

Like a startled deer, she suddenly leapt to her feet, and she was gone.

Listening to her footsteps as she scampered down the stairs, he sighed, wistful and rather melancholy. He lay back on his cushions and contemplated the ceiling for a moment. He had frightened her away. Ah, well. Thus was the price for lying.

Oh, it wasn’t strictly a lie. The nameless woman who had offered to perform this act upon him had been a beauty and was very experienced, and he had been a willing neophyte, open to almost every opportunity afforded him in the Sultan’s palace. Almost every opportunity.

But when she had pushed the cheeks of his arse apart and he felt her soft breath puff against his puckered hole, his courage had failed him. He had been so shocked by the taboo of it, the sheer, erotic wrongness of it, that he had quickly turned over and asked to engage in a more… conventional coupling. To his eternal regret, she had never extended the offer again. He had left with the impression that he had somehow insulted the handmaiden; that she’d found him unsophisticated, provincial.

With the benefit of hindsight, he realised he should have allowed her to service him thus. The idea of it had not only lost the power to shock him, but he now found it quite compelling. Perhaps it was just as well that he’d frightened The Girl away with the mention of it. What if he’d actually extended the request, and had to face the humiliation of seeing the revulsion in her face as she refused? No. Better to test the waters and find them too tepid, than to have your stones chilled in haste.

He took another sip of wine as he heard the sound on the landing, the quick patter of footsteps. To his surprise, she burst into the room again. She was wild-eyed and winded from her gallop up the stairs. In her hand was a basin filled with steaming water. A clean cloth was draped over her arm.

She crossed the room and knelt beside him, setting the basin on the floor. With her head held high, she said imperiously, “And did this Nakshidil undress you first, as well?”


	2. B

I. The Chiming of Church Bells

It is a voice that reminds her of metal – shining, warm, cool, hard, soft, flexible, intractable.

When he is passing judgment, it is particularly harsh and rough-hewn. It is the sound of pig iron and brass, a braying, clanging noise – a voice that foretells retribution and reckoning. It hints of fire and brimstone and a long drop with a short stop. It is a sound that guilty and innocent alike quake to hear and it rolls from his sharp, acid tongue with relish, like the taste of vinegar and quinine and the mineral tang of copper.

When addressing a congregation or assemblage, he speaks with a different weight to his voice. It drops back in his throat and becomes heavier, with a deep, golden cast that both soothes and commands. No one listening to his voice at that moment is in any doubt of who he is or what he is. It has the polished gleam of confidence, molten, rarefied by his own sense of lineage and station. It is the voice of the man as he has aged, and it has been refined by his own experiences and power.

In her ear, in the darkness, it is silvery and pure, light and ever-changing. It has iridescence and balance, with soft edges that nick into her very core. It is boy-sweet and reminds her of a musical instrument, so expressive is it. He says the filthiest things to her when he fucks her; even in those moments, dirty and base, his voice is liquid, albeit tarnished with lechery.

She knows he would not speak this way to a woman of breeding; sometimes it troubles her that he says these things to her without compunction. Perhaps, she sometimes thinks, it is because she is a peasant. In reality, she is not so sure. Perhaps it is merely the fact that saying these things excite her, sometimes against her will, and her excitement inspires him to greater corruption of her flesh and his self-discipline.

His voice melts easily around her, coaxing her response, molding and soothing her, compelling her to listen, to obey, even as she makes demands of her own. And when he cries her name in the final gasps of his completion, it is his own sweet note of silver that tears into her, blends into the fires of her own soul and forges new elements, all their own.

And still he will push her, until she is bent and hammered into the shape he requires her to be, until her own ecstasy finally satisfies him. No pinchbeck for him. He must have her best or none at all. He wrings it from her, like a bell. Hers is the sterling, chiming note of crystal as it shatters under the weight of his passion.

* * *

II. Is Perfection Achieved By the Potter, or the Potter’s Clay?

The first time she saw him, really looked at him, she thought: sharp corners, harsh angels, unforgiving lines – old. He was robed in purple and black and looked at once grand and imposing, immovable and unstoppable. He could be as stiff as starch and as inflexible as the gargoyles of the cathedral. He moved as if the minutest tick of his muscles was being observed and recorded by the Almighty Himself, judging whether he was a worthy advocate – or adversary.

In many ways, she was correct; he is angular and stark. Even so, there are things about him that are surprising, even after all this time. Beneath the shining silver cap of hair is the raven-wing black of his youth, giving her a glimpse of what he would have looked like as a younger, more malleable man. The last vestiges of black hair match his dark eyes – eyes that burn with cold, self-righteous vengeance and smolder with fiery arousal and give nothing away as to what he is really thinking.

His skin is pale; he is a creature who prefers the fashionable gloom of his cloister-like abode to the naturally lit elements outside. To a girl raised in sunlight, whose skin is kissed with the duskier hues of one nourished by fresh air and summer, he is ghostly and gaunt, and she was once stupidly childish enough to believe the very planes of his face were sharp enough to cut her like a knife.

Under his scimitar of a nose, his thin lips form a jagged smile, fraught with mysterious corners. It is a smile that carries no warmth, yet it is not without mirth. She thinks it is because he is in control; he never relinquishes it. Even on his knees, looking up at her, debasing himself with his nose pressed against her tumescent cunt, he is the Master, and she the slave.

There is a grace to his manner and bearing; a nobility that enobles her. There are moments when he is a peace with himself and his surroundings, and his face is intense with concentration, even as incense curls around him like a halo.

He has no shame of his body and walks around nude quite openly; she has had plenty of opportunity to look at him. She knows every perfect inch of him, from his proud head to his elegant, long toes. He has scars on his back from some long-forgotten flagellation. She is tempted to believe they are the evidence of wings, sliced from him before he fell, and given to a more deserving angel.

At those moments, he appears to her not wholly mortal. With his perfect imperfections, he looks augmented and diminished at once; She knows she would gladly sink to her knees and worship him, would he but allow it. He is considering it.

In his true element, however, he shines. In the moonlight, he is a luminous creature, and light and shadow play him like an instrument. He is unrepentantly pale and beautiful in his own way, and she can still close her eyes and remember the first night he took her, and she looked down and saw his pale member, slicing into her like a silver knife splitting open a warm, ripe peach.

“Look at you,” she moaned, delirious with desire. “You are so fair and I’m so dark-”

“You are perfect, girl,” he growled, pumping harder, but he was watching himself as well. “Your cunt was made for this. For me.” He smiled down at her, the fallen angel reminding her that paradise awaited. She came just from the sight of his long, white cock cleaving into her bronze body. He was hard and sharp and the sight of him awed and thrilled her almost as much as the feel of him.

During the day, clad once again in his robes of office, or standing by her, commanding her to do his bidding, his haughty countenance infuriates and charms her in equal measures. But there are moments, when the hard planes and sharp angles soften and he looks at her, and desire blushes his gaunt cheeks with love and longing. It is then that she is filled with power – the power he allows, of course. Nobless oblige.

* * *

Part III – Perfume Of The Heart

The fetid air hangs like miasma over the putrid city. It is a stench of indifference and laziness, and it wrinkles her nose, even though she has been raised in it. On summer days one cannot forget what a charnelhouse smells like, because the rank odour is in the very bones of the city. She cannot escape from it, even in her dreams.

She is hot; long skirts cling to her legs like anchors, making the simple task of walking a tiresome affair. She feels perspiration slide between her breasts, dampening her shirt. She can smell herself, and thanks the blessed Virgin that her flowers are not upon her. She would be shamed.

By rights, he should be just as sweaty and ripe as the rest of them. He is garbed in heavy robes of velvet and silk, and yet, when she leans in close, she can only smell myrrh and frankincense and exotic oils he claims he grew a fondness for during his youth when he travelled to places she has only dreamed about.

In the dark of the night, he whispers the names of these aromatics like a love poem, soft and perfumed in her ear. She repeats them in her mind, trying to imagine their spicy odour, wondering if they smell the way they sound.

Cedar and sandalwood should smell like rosary beads, she thinks. It is the smell of his hands as the soft beads weave through his long fingers. Clove, cinnamon and ginger are the scents of the fragrant cakes served on High Holy days, which he sometimes feeds her, like the host. Hyssop, jasmine and bergamot are the aromas of the candles that wreathe him like an aura. The most exotic sounding of all are patchouli, ylang ylang and eucalyptus. These are his scent, a mouthwatering aroma that resides in the very pores of his skin.

At night, when there is a hint of coolness in the breeze, she lies closer to him and inhales, and he smirks down at her and pulls her closer, to cup a damp breast in his elegant, dry hand. His smooth body smells so clean – cleaner than hers, she thinks, and when she moves over his skin, planting gentle kisses, she does it as much to inhale his scent as she does to give affection. His is the holy scent of entitlement.

He murmurs, “Yes, that’s it, my girl. Lower, little temptress.” He chuckles darkly, and the sound has its own scent. Cassia, perhaps. He purrs, “Don’t think I don’t know what you are doing. If you’re going to have a little sniff around down there, do something with that pretty mouth while you’re at it.” As she buries her nose in his mostly-black pubic hair, snuffling over his balls like an animal, she revels in the scent of privilege and assurance.

He turns her until she is top-to-tail with him, like a pair of nesting shoes. At first, she protests, feeling damp and swampy from the heat, but he brushes aside her protests with a wave of his fingers, fragrant with cardamom. He arouses his own olfactory pleasure, teasing her open with his large nose, amusing himself with her musky, intoxicating aroma. Playing his fingers against her, even as she creates other names for the scent that is Him.

* * *

IV. Touching Upon The Subject

His hands used to frighten her. They are large hands, pale and smooth, with long, slim fingers. Big white spiders with tapered ends, trim nails. Clean. When he draws them across her skin, they are cool, even on the hottest of days. Not the clammy cold of a young swain with his first grasp of tit, but the soothing, confident coolness that makes a woman shudder for reasons other than revulsion.

He has a way of caressing everything he touches like a lover; perhaps as a callow youth he was grasping and over-eager and harsh lessons were learned, but now his hands are languid, controlled, self-disciplined. He touches her flesh as if it is his own; he pats her, fondles her, even as he reads aloud or sips his brandy by the fire. It is the same way he touches a silk blouse or a velvet hat. The act of wrapping his graceful hand around a goblet can cause her to blush.

“When you touch me it feels as though your hands have eyes,” she once said to him, surprised by her own wanton boldness. Texture, he replied, is to the fingers what colour is to the eyes. Everything has its unique texture. “What do I feel like?” she asked, brazenly, wanting him to talk of roses and kitten’s fur.

He smirked. “You feel like property.” She felt the flip-side of his languid caress then. It was a cold, harsh slap of reality, and she turned away, too humiliated to be angry until much later. He knew he had hurt her. That night, he bathed her feet in cool water and penitently rubbed them with his lovely hands until she was drowsing.

He lifted her feet from his lap, lowered them onto the chaise lounge and rose to leave. Thinking she was asleep, he said quietly, “You feel like satin and the Sirocco, and driftwood and pussywillows. You feel like life.” But she’d heard him. His voice felt exactly like those same things to her, so she knew he meant it as a compliment, and an apology.

One night, stirred and cajoled by him, she could not help herself. In the dark her hand drifted down, between her legs, and she closed her eyes as she played with herself. She was so close, her body straining for release, when she felt the bed sag, and her eyes flew open to see him sitting at her side, watching her fingers dancing over her little button. “Finish, my dear,” he said reasonably, as if he was instructing her to eat all of her green beans.

She tried to turn away , but he caught her shoulder and pushed her back. He gently eased his middle finger into her slit, teasing the little stiff button until she was desperate again. “Open your shirt,” he said quietly, his voice as cool and soothing as the finger that held her trembling. She obeyed with shaking fingers, exposing a breast. He took her nipple between his thumb and middle finger, and squeezed it with the gentlest of milking caresses, careful not to touch her anywhere save her nipple and her cunt. She exploded in a scream of madness.

He dressed her again, and rose from the bed, and left. Later, in her feverish state, she could not be completely sure she’d merely dreamt him She had only the memory of his hand at her breast and his finger at her sex.

The first time he took her, she fully expected him to be greedy and rough, to selfishly take what was his with no thought to anything other than his own pleasure. He was entitled, after all. It was not the first or last time he would surprise her.

She closed her eyes as his hands glided over her collarbones; she had been prepared for the sound of ripping cloth as he tore her blouse from her shoulders. Perhaps, in her secret heart of hearts, she even wanted it, welcomed it. Just to see him loosened from his moorings, slipped from the bonds of his iron self-control because he wanted her so much.

Instead, smooth hands gently pushed the garment down, until she stood before him, bare-breasted and proud like the Roman goddesses in his picture books. Her heart pounded as his fingers glided over her skin, whispering down until they kissed the undersides of her breasts.

A single finger tipped her nipple upward, as if weighing it, and he murmured hungrily, “Such perfect little berries. Begging for a taste.” He pulled her close, and she could feel his cock, hard and demanding, against her belly, as threatening as a weapon and as promising as a sweetmeat. His lips were so close she could feel them tickle the delicate shell of her ear.

“Would you like that, my little one?” He whispered salaciously, “Would you like me to suck your perfect teats?” His voice seemed to caress her as well, and when he pinched her nipple playfully between thumb and middle finger, she hissed and he crooned his apology. His hands cupped her breasts perfectly and he lowered himself to his knees and suckled each nipple to aching, blissful pertness, laughing at her whimpers and shivers, even as his hands slid beneath her gown and teased the slit of her netherlips again.

Later he plunged his tongue into her dripping core and ignored her pleas for mercy. By then, he had milked her with his sucking mouth, a prelude to the gratitude of being milked by her virginal sheath.

His cock, long and sharp and elegant as his tongue, as the rest of him, tore through her maidenhead like a lance, but he took the pain away with his patience and his control. He moved her body like a doll’s; turning her over with ease, making her do things that caused her to squirm for days afterward to recall. It was not so much the acts themselves that shamed her; it was her own wanton pleas and demands for more that caused her to avoid his eyes.

Later, the sight of him brushing his fingers over his thin lips would be enough to make her wet for him.

* * *

V. When A Sense Is Removed, Those That Remain Are Heightened

She knows the body has tastes of its own. She has licked the salty sweat from her upper lip, and taken note of the coppery flavour of blood when misfortune has caused her own to spill. Once, when she had secretly touched herself down there, she licked her fingers. It was tangy and salty-sweet, like the bit of alanassi fruit she once stole from that traveler from some faraway land. Forbidden fruit, she thinks. I have tasted forbidden fruit.

She watches him contemplate his brandy. He has tasted her forbidden fruit, she thinks, a smile prinking the corners of her mouth. He has feasted on me, taking what he wanted. He is a devil; a delicious, dirty devil who preens before the pious by day and slavers before the crook of her thighs by night.

She has tasted his lips, and knows that, like his scent, his taste is unique. His lips are redolent with lemon and mint, and the soft undercurrent of brandy. Damn him. He must have bewitched her.

She stands before him, and silently removes her clothes. He watches her carefully, his expression unreadable, as she voluntarily sheds her clothing for him. He smiles as she reveals herself, and as she approaches him, he tilts his head, and murmurs, “What a delectable morsel.” He takes another sip of brandy and sets the goblet aside. “Come and stand before me.”

He reaches between her legs and gives her an exploratory swipe of his finger. He purrs, and to her surprise, he cups her breast with one hand, and paints her nipple with the juices from her cunt. After he circles one rosy tit, he has another trawl through her folds to re-moisten his fingers, and anoints the other. He sits back and admires his handiwork.

She blushes and looks down at her rigid, hard nipples, smeared and cooled with her own leavings. “Why?” she asks.

He laughs, and pleasantly bites his lip. His voice is low and soft, like a king’s. “Because I want to see them glisten.”

She looks up at him. He is looking at her with a man’s hunger so rapacious she feels powerful. Suddenly, his mouth is upon her breast before she can think, and her knees buckle as he sucks and laps at her aureole as if it is a ripe plum. She steps away, panting like a bitch in heat, her blood boiling in her veins like oil. His mouth pulls away from her teat with a sound that is obscene and wicked and she aches between her legs.

Smirking, licking his lips, he resumes his seat, his eyes never leaving hers. The dare is there; she can no more resist his challenge than a child can resist a toy. In a movement, she is on her knees before him, pushing his robe aside, fumbling for the lacings at his waist.

He makes her do all the work, but watches her intently. She can see his cock rising, filling the nest of his crotch, and her hands shake as she pulls the lacings aside and pulls his breeches down, forcing him to raise his hips to assist her.

His cock looks like a pale wand, and smells so wondrous her mouth begins to water. In her hand it is at once hard and soft; stone encased in velvet. She takes a tentative lick of the tip, and tastes him for the first time. Salty, spicy, bitter, sweet; all the combined flavours of the world, sitting atop the head of his prick.

She knows what to do. She came to him untouched, but far from innocent. But this is a first, and he is so clean and warm, and the smell and feel of him is enticing. He grasps her head and makes her suck his finger, instructing her even in this, and she learns with every passing second how to pleasure him. She tastes her own tangy juices on his finger, and when she swirls her tongue over the tip and sucks hard, he releases her head and pulls his finger from her mouth. She has learned all he requires her to know.

Moaning shamelessly, she devours his cock. She moves against him, using mouth and tongue and hand, and he moans and seems to melt and stiffen all at once. Enjoying herself, she glances up at him. What she sees makes her falter.

He is abandoned, his face delicately flushed, and he is in agonized bliss. His face is taut with pleasure, and he has given into her. She now understands; this is the taste of surrender. He is gazing down at her, drinking in the sight of her mouth around his cock, and he looks at once vulnerable and deified. She has never seen him like this.

He moans and shivers, and moves against her, unmindful of how he looks, heedless of how he might be perceived. He is lost in her mouth; she has set him free, and when his climax is upon him, he floods her mouth with his essence, his body arched and taut as a bow.

His nectar explodes on her tongue, and he tastes the way he looks and feels and smells and sounds: fiery and smooth, spicy and metallic. All that is rapturous and pagan and holy slides down her throat like communion wine, and he writhes and sobs her name in the same tone of voice the zealots use to call upon their god.

He sprawls boneless and helpless, moaning in time with the last pulses that spray from his spent cock. His balls are warm and velvety in her hand, and she pulls away reluctantly, regretfully. He is still gasping as she lays her head in his lap, and he places his hand on her hair, as if bestowing a blessing.

Enchantress,” he rumbles, his lovely voice sweet and appreciative. “You have unmanned me.” He leans down and kisses her mouth, and their tastes finally mingle. “I shall lock you away, and feed you lark and peacock on golden plates with my own spoon,” he rasps, sitting back with a sigh.

His resting prick glistens; she understands now. The next time, for his tasting pleasure, it will be his juices that sheen her nipples.


	3. C

She is stretched, tight as a drum, twisted like an auger into the hard, defiant ground. All it would take is a word, a softly spoken, single sibilant word that would bring her release, and she would unravel and burst apart, and ultimately find release.

For almost an hour he has held her, spellbound, braced between this suspended tension like a crucified sufferer on the cross, taut and trembling. He is a cruel, devastating, calculating man. She has never found him so enthralling or beautiful as at this moment. She is his slave, and it breaks her. She has lost to him. Damn him.

She lies beneath the man she calls lover, husband, gaoler. With each passing moment, with each passing touch, he has twisted her body, like a corkscrew, sliding through yielding desire, allowing him to knot her into a shape of his choosing with his cruel, taunting mouth, his punishing, insidious hands.

He has done this to her, coaxed her body, pulled and knotted it until she lies shuddering, on the brink, his fingers slow and languid over her body. If, and when, he allows her to unravel, she is not sure she will be able to rise again. He is Lord of her being, and she needs this as much as she wants this, and wants this as much as she fears it.

“All it would take, my pet,” he croons, tugging at her aching, hard nipples with his lips, “Is one word.” His fingers, long and cool and thin, pluck at her waiting body, and the screw turns again, tightening her up another notch. She moans pitifully, like a victim on the rack. She cannot make herself say it, yet. The maddening, wonderful, blinding fact of the matter is that she will eventually, and she knows it and he knows she knows it. He has bathed her in the dark, spicy oils of his seduction. All there is left to do is to wait, and turn the screw again.

It started as a challenge, a dare. All his talk of harems and seraglios and heat and Turkey and Persia, and the dark beauties at his beck and call. She was jealous of them; she wanted to be unique to him, to be hisfirst in something.

She does not know that his tales of the Arabian Nights are just that – tales of exotic locales told to amuse and educate her. Yes, he has tasted forbidden fruit. He has felt it burst, ripe and sweet,on his tongue, and as a youth he reveled in the pleasures of the flesh. But a day came when he put aside his carnal delights and hid his tormented body behind sober robes of justice and judgment.

He learned early that his young wife burned with envy when he spoke of those days; days before she was born, when he was a black-haired, black-eyed youth, quite and sullen, wanton and curious; determined to sample the fleshpots of every city that offered up its secrets to him. Little did he know that one day, a young temptress would enter his life and shake the dust from the vaults of those sensual memories and bring them roaring to life, and he would find that, once again, he had secrets to share, and lessons to teach.

She is young and so rich, like cream and brandy and fine wines, dates and figs; there are times when he feels like a boy again, all eager, fumbling fingers and hair-trigger libido. There are nights when he plunders her like treasure, and five sweet, rutting thrusts are all he needs to satiate the howling beast within. But then, there are days like this, when control is called for, and he is the man who must rise and meet that need. Days like this, when the blood in her stirs hot and wild and arrogant, and he must take the reins in hand and be her Master.

She teased him beyond his capacity for tolerance all day, flaunting her sun-ripened skin, jutting her dusky, succulent nipples saucily before him, daring to taunt him in an obscene parody of the dances the gypsies used to do for money on the square.

Tonight she had no audience save him. She had no tempo except the pounding, hypnotic rhythm of her galloping heart. Tonight, she was his instrument, his tambourine on which to play, to sing, to shimmer in the air.

“You cannot make me,” she said, cruel and secure in her ability to dictate the drives of her own body. “It is something a woman allows.” She leaned toward him, her hands brushing against her dark, hard little nipples, allowing her fingertips to snag against the tart buds that she knows torment and challenge him so persistently.

For an hour, she has kept out of arm’s length, moving around his sumptuous bedchamber like Solome, seducing her king for sweetmeats served on a silver tray. “And how exactly can you make me, Sir?” she purrs, swaying like a Jezebel, beckoning him with her brazen pout, her strong, limber arms and warm, rough peasant hands weaving in the air like hypnotic ribbons of silk.

Perhaps she did allow this, but he chose his moment, as she turns away from him to provide him a glimpse of her slender back, her long, coarse black hair whipping to and fro with her swaying form.

He is a tall man. His thin frame has always held a wiry strength. In his youth, he worked his body to hone it; now it is surprisingly strong, and he captures her in his arms, ensnaring her from behind in a vice-like grip. His voice is measured and calm in her ear. He knows all too well the effect his soft, menacing tone has on his wife. It will soothe when she is agitated; it will enflame when she is indifferent. It also seduces her when she is passionate. It is like catching the wasp in a silver dish of sugared water.

“If you wish to play the wanton harlot with me, my girl,” he purrs in her perfect shell-pink ear, “You will have to play by my rules.” His fingers slide down her warm, flat belly, and she quivers beneath his touch. “And I can assure you, my pet, that if I wish to make you, you will.”

She tried to fight. “I have my own mind!” she declared proudly, but even as she spoke, his fingers slid past the dark patch of curls, and he hummed appreciatively as his long, thin fingers teased the damp slit of her plump labia. Even as her dark eyes flashed with defiance, her traitorous body felt the helpless yearning to give in to his knowing, commanding touch.

He taught her this; never had she known that her body could betray her so easily. He knew the gentle circling of that tiny bud of silk between her netherlips could send her down on her knees like a cobbled horse. He is master now; and her body will obey, and even though his satisfied laughter rings mockingly in her ears, she can feel his body follow hers to the floor.

He is a man who understands the old familiar phrase that the pleasure of power is not half as rewarding as the power of pleasure. “That’s it, my love,” he croons, even as he plays her body, his fingers plucking at her like the tense string of a harp. “You will, for my pleasure. You will, but only at my command.”

She is no longer the proud enchantress. She is the helpless, whimpering beast, slavering under the master’s touch, waiting on tiptoe for the next caress. And when she falls, he takes over.

He is no longer the hard, cold, commanding judge. He is the hard, cold, commanding lover, his experienced body moving over hers, leaving her helpless, boneless, pride-less. As his mouth whispers over her body, branding her proud breasts with his oh-so-hot mouth, she grits her teeth.

“You cannot make me!” she repeats, horrified how unconvincing she sounds to herself. He merely laughs and ties her hands to the headboard of their bed.

“We shall see,” he murmurs against her vulnerable belly, on his way to seek the haven of her sleek, pearly folds.

Why can’t she push him away? She has strong legs! She has helped men push carts before with nothing more than the pistoning of her long limbs. It would be so easy to show defiance here; he is in kicking distance. “You are thinking dangerous thoughts, treasure,” he purrs, smiling. He strokes the little damp patch of hair with the back of his fingers, like soothing a pet. “Stop your thoughts of defiance, my dove. Think of what you will gain,” he says, his lips nibbling softly, his long fingers parting her like the pages of a delicate and much-loved book.

And she is gone, gone with him to the pleasure dens of the east. She is a beloved member of the harem, pleasured by the greedy sultan. She is the slave desired by the master, and given as a gift to play with. He is masterful, because he wants her to enjoy it. His wicked tongue, so caustic and sharp edged, feels like velvet between her legs, and when he finds the little button, oh, that little bud of silk! It is in his mouth and she feels the screw turn and turn and the long fingers enter her, oh! the bed of delights, the sweet passage of desire, and his fingers curl and twist her tighter until she can no longer breathe or think –

Oh, Holy Mother and the Apostles, save me from this – it must be a sin! His mouth is warm and wet and so is she and her own hands find her bursting nipples and twist and pull and tug as his fingers beckon and pull her down to hell with this sweet-tongued devil, who even now begs, “Ah, my pet, my pretty one, come, come, come…” His face is dark like a demon, and full of lust and desire and yearning and she shudders and whimpers.

“You will, oh, yes, you will,” he purrs, and his voice takes on the same velvety edge as his tongue in her cunt. “You will come on my fingers, in my mouth, my beauty, and you will scream…”

She mewls his name… another twist of the screw, and she is so high, so high she will die when she falls….

“I will catch you, my sweet girl,” he croons, and his hands are smearing her moisture over her mouth, and she is sucking her pussy juices from his fingers like a greedy wanton, and his cock is big and hard and hot and –

“You will come now!” he growls, and the lover is gone, the master is there, and the thrust tears into her body with the force of a bolt of lightning, and the wave drops from beneath her and she falls, screaming his name in a dozen languages she does not know, languages spoken by slave girls and harem girls, and harlots and concubines and catamites and geishas and all who have given their bodies to their lovers and have come against their will simply because they could not resist the man who reared above them, urging them to unspeakable, inarticulate pleasure.

He splits her open like a scimitar cleaving into a fragrant, juicy melon, and she no longer cares who has the right to tell her anything. Only that she is there, beneath him, and he knows her and loves her and proves it every day with his fierce body and his steely gaze and his long, beautiful fingers and his sorcerer’s voice. And that he will do this again.

And finally, as she unravels, she can meet him, match his ferocity with her own, and his passion and control, and give it back to him, and their dance together is wild and untamed and only a little imperfect, as if to give them an excuse to repeat it in hopes of one day getting it right.

Soon, his expression is the same as the one she has worn, and the tightening screw is within him, and it is her turn to urge him on, to cajole and command, and his thrusts are like the raging gallop of a destrier. His hips do not merely drive; they roll, they rotate and ripple within her, leaving her breathless and exhilarated, holding on to this runaway horse, feeling his power and strength between her legs, her hips bruised and aching with that lovely pain that will make her smile on the morrow.

And then he bursts over her, like a hart leaping over the moon, proud and beautiful and silvery, and his face is a light-filled mask of pleasure that drags her along with him, holding him to her, supporting him, and even as he collapses against her body, she marvels that she has ever questioned why she tolerates his moods and his silences, his sneers and his airs. It is for those precious seconds when he Masters her, and in so doing, gives her permission to fly, to be taken to places only he has been; places he will take no other living soul, save her.


End file.
